A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, blood, vivid depictions of violence (not carried out), Umbridge

*Due to our heavy schedules, and busy hours the updates will be back to every alternate Saturday once more, terribly sorry for the wait. ;)

Next update Saturday: 7th of June

Chapter Eight: Cling To Hate

…

"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain."

- James Baldwin

…

Harry arrives with a tiny piece of apple still lodged in his mouth, the only evidence left of the apple he had picked up from the Great Hall before he headed for the detention, he's missed lunch and really couldn't even stomach the thought of facing the toad on an empty stomach.

That's what he calls her in her head, the great pink toad, amongst other things of course, it's by far the politest, and funniest too, according to Ron and Hermione's frugal sense of humor.

He quickly swallows the piece without chewing and knocks, feeling his heart sink just as always when he's heading to these detentions, with the last one being last night. There's a shrill chirp that says "Come in," and Harry actually rolls his eyes before opening the door.

"Mr. Potter," she nods as Harry stops before her desk, his hands carefully and steadily lax, dangling freely by his sides, even the right one that's still stinging.

"Professor Umbridge," Harry says, trying to repress every ounce of hatred and foulness he would have liked to pour into those words. In Umbridge's place, in Harry's head, sat the great pink toad, in her too-tight pink cardigan and shrieking voice. The cat adorned plates covering every inch of the circular office doesn't aid her image much either.

Harry, who usually has a decent connection with most animals, promptly finds himself hating cats, just because Umbridge seems to be obsessed with them.

"You're late," she says, her teaspoon annoyingly clinking against her china cup, Harry stitches his eyes to the clinking spoon and wishes it to combust in her hand, but then moves his gaze so as to not actually cause a debacle like that. He has a feeling that it won't pass overlooked the same way as Aunt Marge's incident had.

"I'm really not," Harry is actually five minutes early because of the same shit Umbridge pulled yesterday. There's no way that he's late. Umbridge, as if waiting for him to say those exact words, gives him a Grinch-like smile and turns her golden desk clock for Harry to see, exactly five minutes past five.

Harry reads the clock and then looks at her, then the clock again before he gazes down at his own wristwatch. It shows five minutes to five.

"My watch is saying-"

"Well, then it must be wrong," Umbridge interrupts him sweetly, tapping the clock with mock disappointment on her face.

Harry doesn't argue. He knows that there's no point. She'll just give him more detention, and Harry gets a nasty headache just thinking about it. 'Let's just get this over with,' he thinks and waits for Umbridge to let him sit.

She doesn't, not until the fucking silver spoon is put away and she raises her steaming cup to take a small sip, not breaking eye-contact with Harry even once, not until the cup is back on her desk and her cats are throwing a fit on the walls. Harry contemplates if Azkaban is really that bad compared to this.

"You may sit, Mr. Potter," Harry plops down in his seat, eyeing the black quill and the empty roll of parchment with slight dread.

"What am I writing?" Harry asks but knows the answer anyway.

"The same as before, until the lesson has sunk," she says and Harry takes the quill, his hand already throbbing in sympathy of what is about to come. The quill rolls between his fingers, and Harry has the sudden urge to think whether he can stab her with the quill. The image is violent and bloodied, but surprisingly neither deter his daydreaming. He wants to see her in pain.

Harry keeps staring at it for a second before getting to work; it wouldn't do to give Umbridge another excuse to assign more detentions. He writes the first word, 'I', and the scabbed over cuts on his hand split open. It's with the sheer force of will that he keeps himself from hissing.

He risks a glance up, to see her staring at him with a smile playing at her lips. It's disturbing.

Unlike Aunt Petunia, he doesn't imagine her without a mouth, rather, he imagines her without her whole face, just a void where it should be starting from the top of her head, and ending just above her thick, meaty neck. Without those beady little eyes, tracking his every movement, or those lips that simper so disgustingly.

Time passes. He keeps writing. Umbridge has gone back to some paperwork by now, so at least she isn't staring at him. There is the steady scratch of his quill on the bloodied parchment, and the turning of Umbridge's papers, along with the clock on her desk which is ticking at a steady rhythm. A few cats purr on the wall.

Tick tock tick tock.

He wants to pull out his wand and cast multiple reductos around the room, anything to just shut the damn cats up, they might not be the sole reason for the pulsing in his temples, but they're not helping either. With a sigh, Harry wonders how long it will take for his cuts to close this time.

If he breaks this quill, will she have another one for him? Is it worth the risk? No, he thinks, definitely not worth it.

I must not tell lies.

He has written about fifty lines by now, and his hand is burning fiercely. His robe sleeve is also bloody. He briefly ponders wiping his hand on her hot pink table cloth, how many detentions would that result in?

I must not tell lies.

He is starting to feel slightly dizzy and nauseous. He eyes the clock. Twenty minutes past six. How long does she plan on keeping him? Will she make him miss dinner again? He wouldn't put it past her, of course. At this point, he wouldn't put anything past her.

Another hour passes, and Harry's hand is in red rivulets, and he's sure if it goes on, the blood would make a small stream in the classroom all the way to the gates. Last night wasn't any different from the others, the O.W.L. classes are awfully drilling, especially when you have Hermione as your friend, and Harry is reaching the end of his ropes faster than he was expecting.

The homework is already too much, and Harry has nearly spent three hours a day in Umbridge's office, which is an overwhelming disadvantage compared to the other students. Harry's pretty sure he's the only one who has had detentions with Umbridge.

By seven thirty, Harry really cannot do this anymore. His other hand has reached a delicate point that goes past pain, into a very disconcerting numbing sensation that's slowly creeping up his wrist, beyond the small pool of blood. The parchment is nearly coming to its end and finally, finally, Umbridge opens her useless gab.

"That's about enough for now, Mr. Potter," she says, in a sweet saccharine voice that makes Harry ponder once again, the disadvantages of committing first-degree murder… well, for one, he won't be able to complete his studies in Azkaban… on the other hand, it means he won't have to see or hear this creature anymore, so really… are there any negative repercussions at all?

"Let me see your hand, Mr. Potter," she continues as Harry slowly gets up to his feet, his hand knuckle-white around the quill and his other hand drowned in blood. He walks up to her with a hidden grimace.

You're not a murderer, Harry, he tells himself, 'you don't have the guts, nor would it do you any good.'

' I don't know, Jamie Junior, ' the Sirius in his head starts, rather unhelpfully. ' I can see you pulling off the perfect crime. You won't even have to use your wand,'

'Shut up, Sirius,' Harry snaps and holds his bleeding hand for inspection, trying not to hurl in disgust as her clammy hand clutches his and she hums. A carefully aimed diffindo could probably sever her hand from her body, Harry muses.

"Needs a bit more, I'd say," Umbridge isn't even looking at his scars, but rather intensely, sadistically staring into Harry's eyes. "Not for today," She drawls and lets go of his hand, reaching for her wand to clean Harry's blood off her fingers.

'It'll be easy. You just gotta be careful about body disposal.' Imaginary Sirius hums, rubbing his chin. 'Cannot bury or burn her… maybe throw her off the Astronomy tower down in the mud pit. It has a great view too. Or dissolve her in one of Snape's Potions.'

This Sirius is sounding more tempting as minutes go by, but Harry stifles him once again. 'Everyone would know I did it,' he thinks to imaginary Sirius as he holds the toad's gaze.

'Not necessarily. Bitch like her… I'd say it'd be a miracle if she's not murdered during the school year. Someone's gotta do it.'

"Maybe Monday afternoon will suffice?" Umbridge says and Harry gulps, dropping his hand to his side, vaguely feeling the dark blood dripping down his fingers upon the stone floor.

'Someone really should,' Sirius says and Harry gets out, his head throbbing nearly with the same ferocity as his hand. He cannot go back like this… bleeding and miserable, looking more like the Bloody Baron than himself.

He has to steady himself against the wall as he starts walking, and his hand actually does leave a bloody trail of crimson droplets on the stone floors as he walks. Gritting his teeth, he clenches it into a fist, wrapping his scarf around it. At least with magic, he'd be able to get out the bloodstains. He takes care of his macabre trail as well.

He can't go back to Gryffindor Tower like this, so he takes to walking around aimlessly. He is hungry, his grumbling stomach acutely reminds him of his summers with Dursleys and Harry groans. The food would have been long gone from the Great Hall, he only hopes that Ron had saved him some sandwiches or rolls like last night.

He can go to Myrtle's bathroom again, there's very little chance that Malfoy would be there today. And he never got to say hi to her. He frowns, he hadn't seen her there yesterday. And he needs to do something about the bleeding too.

Going under his Invisibility Cloak again, he makes his way to the bathroom, letting muscle memory carry him as he loses himself in his thoughts.

The bathroom is quiet as he enters, he looks around for a minute, almost waiting for Malfoy to jump out at him. But there is no one here. He removes his Cloak all the way and quietly calls out, "Myrtle?"

Immediately, he hears a voice respond, "Harry?"

"Hey Myrtle," he says as he makes his way over to a basin, turning on the water and peeling the scarf off his hand. He winces as it sticks to the cuts. Some of it has begun to dry already, and the cuts burn as Harry peels the cloth all the way.

"What are you doing here?" she comes swooping out of one of the stalls, hovering over his head. Harry wonders how offended she'd be if he stuck his hand through her, but the ice-cold would feel so good against his aching hand.

He shakes his head as if to dislodge the thought, and turns on the tap, letting the cool water run over his hand. "Just wanted to say hi." He refuses to look up at the mirror and see his reflection, which could no doubt give Malfoy a run for his money.

"Really?" Her voice is a mix of suspicion, delight, and astonishment, and Harry feels slightly guilty.

"Yeah," he mutters, then asks, a little awkwardly, "How're you?"

Myrtle, instead of replying, flies from his right to his left, leaning in closer to the basin. "What happened to you?"

"Detentions."

She makes a face, "That looks really painful."

Finally closing the tap, Harry rummages around his backpack and comes up with a broken half of a quill, "It is," he says, before quickly transfiguring the quill into a small piece of handkerchief.

Then he hears the door creaking open, and freezes. Somehow, even Myrtle remains quiet, looking at the opening door.

Malfoy. Again.

Harry doesn't know what he's done to deserve this.

Malfoy walks in, shoulders hunched and wand held loosely in one hand, while the other rubs at his temples, the posture is so vastly different from his usual confident saunter. He hasn't noticed Harry yet. Then he removes his hand, looking around the bathroom, before his eyes land on Harry. He stills, mouth slightly agape.

Harry vaguely notices that Myrtle has disappeared again.

It takes Malfoy only a second to right himself, and that familiar sneer is back on his face, "So, Potter, accidentally stalking me again, hm?"

Harry feels a scowl creep up his face, "In case you've suddenly gone blind, it's you who walked in on me, Malfoy."

"It's you who's lurking in a girls' bathroom like a ghost," Malfoy says, turning his wand over and over in his long fingers.

"It seems like I'm not the only one." Harry folds his arms, his wand clutched in his uninjured hand.

##

Draco's eyes flick over to Potter's right hand. Which is… bloody again. There isn't as much blood as yesterday, at least, not much that he can see, but it's still smeared all over his hand.

He tilts his head to the side, "Really, Potter? Your love life is pretty much irredeemable at this point, no matter how many times you try that ritual."

To his surprise, instead of denying it, Potter says, "Oh? And are you doing any better?"

It takes some effort to keep himself from flushing as Draco replies hotly, "I don't waste my time in such useless affiliations."

Potter's snort infuriates him, "Figures."

"So, tell me, do you like getting hurt? Don't you get enough attention already?" Not that any of that attention has been good recently.

Potter not-so-discreetly buries his bleeding hand under the other one, scowl deepening, "None of your business, Malfoy."

It really isn't, but Potter is bleeding enough that the air in the bathroom is tinged metallic. And that's a smell Draco isn't particularly fond of.

"When you're dripping all over the school's bathroom, it is. I happen to care about the sanitation of this place, I'm a prefect, you know."

"Oh, so you don't want to get tainted," Harry rolls his eyes.

"You could put it that way," Draco's shoulders straighten, his face taking on his usual expression. He cannot afford to show weakness to Potter, not twice in a row anyway.

Potter rolls his eyes at him. "Well, you're more than welcome to use any other bathrooms at your leisure," he says. "This one isn't in use anyway."

"Doesn't mean you should turn it into a macabre room."

Potter's eyes narrow, he clutches his hand harder. Hard enough for it to start bleeding again, small droplets roll from between his fingers. "I was just leaving." Potter bites out.

Draco sneers. He cannot handle this level of irritation and cheek that Potter's throwing at him without some measures of retaliation. The other boy is getting too cocky. "You're still dripping blood everywhere, Potter." He points out, snark dripping off every word.

"Ugh, for fuck's sake," Potter snarls, his eyes flashing, like a storm in a teacup, the innocent-looking comment seems to stir Potter crazy. "Just go find somewhere else to cry!" he exclaims, and throws his hand above his head, spraying blood everywhere. "Is it that hard?"

Draco's hand itches around his wand, and there's a tiny voice inside his head, telling him that he needs to give Potter something real to cry about. Potter, as if reading his mind, whips out his own wand, his breathing haggard.

"What, Malfoy? Did I strike a nerve?"

"Be very careful about the words you're going to choose next, Potter." Draco has no qualms about hurting Potter, in fact, he has been craving to hurt something to compensate for his own mental suffering for a while now. This should be healthy for him, and less than fortunate for Potter. All he needs now is another jab, a valid excuse to strike and then use against Potter when Severus calls on him.

Because he will, of course Potter's going to tattle to Dumbledore, but Draco will be ready by then. Potter provoked him, Potter is asking for it, and Draco cannot wait to set the bastard back in his place.

Potter goes very red in the face, his nostrils flaring. "Choose my words?!" he yells incredulously. "Who do you think you are? Get over yourself, you self righteous bloody prat! Your words mean nothing to me,"

"Reducto!"

Potter ducks, drawing his own wand to conjure a shield. Draco narrows his eyes. He can faintly hear the ghost of that girl moaning in horror behind him.

"Hide behind a shield, that's right, Potter," Draco sneers, "That's all you're good for, hiding."

"Shut up, you sniffling git!"

Draco pouts in mock sympathy. "Poor piss Potter with his sob story of a life." he ducks a stinging jinx coming from the shorter boy. "Hiding behind his name, and his poor rag-wearing friends… hiding behind Diggory." That struck a nerve, and Potter goes very still, his eyes wide with rage and his hand trembling in place. Draco rejoices, only momentarily at Potter's frozen figure before he pushes again.

"Because you did, didn't you? You killed the Diggory boy because he fell for your act the same way everyone did. Then you hid behind his ass like a squealing pig, and waited for him to take the brunt of it." He, of course, knows it isn't true. But at the moment, all Draco cares about is hurting Potter. And that comment seems to hit the mark.

Potter's wand lowers, and he's still just looking at Draco, as if he thought him incapable of making such allegations, or uttering those words at all. He seems bewildered, his mouth opens without a noise escaping. Draco waits for the response.

"I'm not a squealing pig hiding behind people." Potter finally says, slowly, his eyes cold and his face slack. "You are. You and your racist ass hiding behind your father and his name, 'my father this' and 'my father that'…" he continues in a high pitched voice, a crude exaggerated version of Draco's own. Potter's nose wrinkles. "Well news flash, Malfoy," He spits. "He's nothing but a fucking Death Eater and a slave and neither are you, his son. "

"So you better cry in secret," Potter continues, face contorted in disgust. Myrtle's ghost appears behind him before flickering out again. "Because no one is going to spare you any sympathy."

Then without another word, Potter shoves past him and throws on his cloak, the bathroom doors slam shut, sending rattling echoes against the walls as the invisible boy storms out. Draco stays, motionless, his eyes staring at the basin for almost a full minute.

#

Their inner office is an absolute mess today. He's short on one Auror team whom he dispatched to a case in Devon, and nearly half of the paperwork is still incomplete, on top of that, they're getting one letter after the other, reporting missing persons and suspicious deaths. And Kingsley only has so many people on call.

Just on cue, a flock of paper planes lands haphazardly from the ceiling, overwhelming their wide-eyed mail receiver, who looks about ready to cry. Kingsley flicks his wand at the poor man's desk, arranging the planes. "Take your time," he tells LionClaw who stares back at him with saucer wide eyes and a slack mouth.

They have never received this many messages a day before. Kingsley may have to ask Moody for a division merge if this goes on. "Julia, message Moody," He says, standing from his chair. "We might need to merge."

"He already wrote us, sir," LionClaw says with a timid frown. "They're asking for a merge as well. They're overwhelmed."

"Tell him no," Kingsley snaps, making his way through the waist-length stacks of incomplete paperwork. They needed to reduce those, and soon. "One more damn paper plane and the whole office bursts!"

He points at Williams, their newest recruit who's staring around him with doe-like eyes, looking more intimidated than one might in a battlefield. "I want the Davidson files sent to me by lunchtime, Williams, see it done."

"Yes sir." Williams scrambles to his feet, fixes his glasses to dive into the piles.

Kingsley leans down over his own parchment, his brows knitted in concentration. "Tonks?" he doesn't look up. "You still haven't handed in your report."

There's a small crash and a groan. "Working on it," Tonks replies.

Kingsley rolls his eyes and signs the bottom of the parchment, reaching for another as he rolls this one. "Work on it harder," he tells Tonks, passing her cluttered desk in a flurry to get to the stack of closed cases. "Robert? Where is yours? " he asks the room as his eyes don't pin down Robert immediately.

"Robert floo-ed in sick, sir," Julia muses, charming a paper into a message plane.

Shacklebolt points at her. "Get his report over a fire call," he grabs a stack of papers from his right and dumps them on his desk. "We need it closed today."

There's commotion all around him, people bumping into other people as they all scramble to put some relief on their paper load, Futternic bustles around the cramped space, distributing coffee mugs and scones randomly to anyone who extends a hand out of their desk, Kingsley avoids her by a few inches as he races from stack to stack, waving his wand and organizing the cases.

Their rhythm is abruptly disrupted when a male voice clears his throat, knocking on a nearby desk to get his attention. Tonks's, as it happens, the woman growls at the intruder.

"Auror Shacklebolt?" The man says, awkwardly fixing the collar of his robes.

Kingsley cocks an eyebrow at him. "You're not from my division." He says and grabs a scone off Futternic's tray.

"Er, no sir." The man says, looking wildly out of place, Futternic almost runs right into him, sending him leaning on a stack of papers. "I'm from the magical mishaps department?" The man says, throwing a glance at the passing woman. "Minister Fudge wants to see you, sir."

That doesn't sound right, Kingsley thinks. "He didn't send an owl?"

The man is still leaning on the stacks. "Apparently it's an urgent meeting." He shrugs. Kingsley nods at him curtly, and then the man sighs.

"Alright, thank you-"

The man cuts him off. "Adams."

"Right, Adams." Shacklebolt shakes his head. "You may leave my office." He doesn't need people from other departments snooping on them and seeing them in disarray.

The others look at him in silence and Kingsley nods again. "Right."

Not sending an owl, or at least a message plane only meant one thing, the meeting was not going to be documented, it's off records, and Shacklebolt had a slight feeling that he wasn't going to enjoy this secret meeting. Fudge barely ever had anything worthwhile to say anyway.

"You heard that?" he snatches his hat from his desk, inwardly cursing the minister for his awful timing. "I won't be gone for long." The bustling in the office slowly trickles back into full volume. "Julia is in charge while I'm gone."

A chorus of protest and frustrated groans arise all around the office, all synchronised with the scene of chaos around them.

"Come on!"

"She's the worst!"

"Why can't it be me?!"

"I can hear you all, you know," says Julia, rolling her eyes. "You guys suck." Kingsley rolls his eyes too and steps out, passing Adams on his way out. As he passes, he can vaguely look in on the other Auror divisions, looking nearly drowned as flock after flock comes upon them.

"Send another team to Cornwall!" Some Auror yells in his office.

"But we don't have any more active Aurors!"

Kingsley passes them and dodges a low hanging paper plane before ducking into the cramped elevator, the golden gates closing the chaos before his eyes.

"Absolute mess, ain't it?" Murphy, his fellow Auror, says. Kingsley knows that he's on the brink of retirement. Not likely while this whole mess is going on.

"It is," There's another man in the elevator with them, plump and old with a long beard, hoisting a card box in his arms, as something widely wriggles and shifts inside, growling. He's probably from the lower floors, Kingsley thinks, the care and welfare of magical creatures.

"We might need to bring in the new rookies soon." Murphy continues, eyeing the abundance of paper planes hovering above them.

"Is it only the Auror department?"

"As far as I know, Merlin knows the Aurors are always the ones in deep shit in these blunders."

"What blunder?"

Murphy raises his bushy grey eyebrows. "Are you daft, Shacklebolt?" The man snaps. "We're on the brink of war, boy. The ministry should be declaring a national emergency,"

"Minister Fudge has his reasons,"

"And I have my reasons for having spring rolls for breakfast, doesn't mean I'm right."

"Of course, sir."

The elevator pings open and Kingsley is the first to step out, hearing Murphy grumble under his breath and two women in yellow robes get inside the elevator before it closes once again. The minister's floor mainly consists of the man's office and his secretary's, and so Kingsley walks up to the Secretary's desk in a looming silence.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt. Minister Fudge summoned me," the secretary looks up at him, her eyes raking him head to toe before she puts her fancy green quill down and straightens her skirt.

"Just a moment," she says and disappears into the corridor that leads to the man's office, emerging only after a few minutes have passed.

"Minister Fudge will see you now," she says and slips into her chair again. Kingsley walks past her with an impatient frown. He cannot possibly think of a reason why Fudge would want to see him.

"Come in," comes the muffled voice of the minister as Kingsley knocks. He turns the knob and walks in, softly closing the door behind him.

"Minister Fudge," he nods at the man behind his gigantic desk, "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, yes. Kingsley, take a seat."

Kingsley sits.

"How have you been?" Fudge asks, crossing his hands on his desktop, his face stretched into an uncomfortable smile.

Kingsley hides a frown. They don't have time for small talk. "Overwhelmed by paperwork, Minister," he hopes that the man gets a hint quickly enough, Kingsley really doesn't have the time, nor the patience for a social visit.

"I'd imagine yes," Fudge pointlessly flips a book close and then leans back in his seat. "Crime does seem to skyrocket particularly in September,"

Kingsley cocks an eyebrow at the man, Murphy's earlier words ringing in his head. This isn't just incompetence. It's ignorance, bold, and repressing. Kingsley is very glad that he's joined the order once again. At least he's actually doing something for the war effort.

"Now, Kingsley, I won't take up much of your time. We just need to clear a few things up and you can be on your way,"

"Clear up?"

"Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure," Fudge waves him off, ducking under his desk to seemingly reach one of the drawers and pull out a letter.

"I received a letter this morning, it seemed a bit disconcerting," Fudge was spinning his bowler hat in his hands, almost looking nervous.

"I'm sure it was," Kingsley cannot help the dryness in his tone.

"Yes well… It's regarding the day the Potter boy ran away from his home. About a month ago? That entire show he threw about Dementors attacking him," the man gestures wildly with his hands and chuckles, staring at Shacklebolt to do the same. Kingsley flashes a dim smile and Fudge stills, clearing his throat before tapping his desk.

"Yes, well… this source claims that you were also present, the day of the alleged 'attack'. I looked up your hours, and it seems that you were on leave that day,"

"Yes," Kingsley drapes one leg over the other in an exaggerated display of nonchalance. "I haven't been on leave in over two months,"

Fudge opens his mouth and then closes it for a moment. "Well yes, yes. It's not that I'm implying anything, Auror Shacklebolt. But I also happen to have your floo location history on hand as well, and you seem to have used your floo to contact the headmaster on the following day after the incident."

"You seem to have done your research, Minister Fudge."

"I'm not alleging anything, Kingsley, just so we're on the same page. It's just… well, you know how Dumbledore has been in regard to the ministry lately. I just don't see why the Aurors under my command should be in contact with him. As you know, he's just the school's headmaster -"

"And the grand chief of warlocks," Kingsley cuts in.

"Yes, yes, both of which have little to do with politics. I just want to make sure that my people are aware of all the risks and consequences of mutiny." Fudge's eyes are intense and trained on Kinglsey in an almost uncanny way.

"Mutiny?" he quirks an eyebrow.

"Excuse my bluntness, Kingsley. But I think I've made my point abundantly clear… if I notice such an occurrence again, that is you or any of my other employees, going back and forth to Dumbledore for whatever reason… well, I have my responsibilities and you have yours." Fudge has put his hat back on and is wringing his fingers.

"I'm sure we're both doing them splendidly," Kingsley replies cooly.

"Yes, as am I. Well, that was all. Good luck with your work, Auror Shacklebolt. You may leave." He waves his hand at the door.

"Thank you, sir, good afternoon." Kingsley hopes the man steps on dung.

"Yes, to you as well."